supplied by air, so half-rations it is.
Soon it will be dark. Thatâs the end of Christmas Day and then weâll be on the wonderful road again. I tell you these things. Try to understand. Something really extraordinary is happening to your old brother.
God knows when thisâll be posted but â Happy Christmas!
Somewhere
31st Dec. 1944
Dear Ellen,
How are things at home? How is the mouth organ player? You all seem very far away. There are great psychological barriers in communicating rather than in just firing off letters for their own sweet sakes. To be honest, Iâm not sure if the outer world exists any more.
And Iâve got other problems ⦠For instance, I was hauled up before an officer I had better not name (he will probably read this letter before you do) in the Censorship office. Apparently I have been giving too much away in my letters and endangering security. (You might be a Jap agent in England, sending all my letters on to High Command in Tokyo, or something similarly daft.) There I stood, rigid at attention in my soiled jungle greens; there he satimmaculate in khaki, putting me right. On such situations the British Empire is founded.
In future any references to place names or troop movements will be deleted from my letters. There is to be no further attempt to convey a picture of what is happening in these possibly most exciting days of my life. I made a protest, but itâs like butting your blinking head against an advancing tank. Any attempts to evade regulations will be punished.
It was hard enough in the first place, trying to describe life here to you. Now Iâm forbidden to try to convey a picture! So hereâs what may prove to be my last try.
I mean the picture is like one of those marvellous Brueghels (in this culturally deprived area I have even forgotten how you spell that weird Flemish name â¦). Is there one called The Conversion of St Paul ? Where there are thousands of people on horseback and on foot in the tall mountains and, although St Paul is having his moment right in the middle of the picture, no one is taking a blind bit of notice. Weâre doing this incredible thing and no oneâs taking a blind bit of notice â just grumbling about where their next packet of fags is coming from â¦
Later. Oh, burps . Now the first day of 1945. No celebrations last night, bringing more complaints. Fancy wanting to celebrate. I was collared to shift heavy stores. Too exhausted then to do anything more than sleep.
Weâre at a place called â but I named it once and darenât do so again or theyâll keelhaul me under the nearest 3-tonner. Great amassment of vehicles. People all strolling round, brown as berries, smoking among the branchless trees. (Hope that doesnât give our positions away.) Half-rations. God in his heaven, CO in his mobile home. Only the Japs missing from the picture. (You could perhaps get Dad to send me some ciggies if heâs feeling generous.)
Oh, I canât concentrate. Something comes between us, and you know who he is.
Well, Iâll just tell you how we got here. I think it was the night after I last wrote that we got on the road again, the whole division,all very orderly. (I donât tell you which division, so itâs safe â¦) I was more careful about how I travelled, not wanting to meet my end yet â dying for your country should not entail being run over by your own 3-tonner! Yet the sight of endless trucks trundling like elephants in convoy is irresistible. Are they off to the Elephantsâ Graveyard or a solemn heavyweight orgy? Some stops, some starts, yet on the whole a steady funeral pace. Huge chunks of landscape phantasmal in the dusty dark.
Sleep, huddled in a silly position on a crate. Waking next morning very early to behold a wondrous sight.
Is dawn a secret shy and cold,
Anadyomene, silver-gold?
Are we still on terra firma
Or merely moving into â another
Soon it will be dark. Thatâs the end of Christmas Day and then weâll be on the wonderful road again. I tell you these things. Try to understand. Something really extraordinary is happening to your old brother.
God knows when thisâll be posted but â Happy Christmas!
Somewhere
31st Dec. 1944
Dear Ellen,
How are things at home? How is the mouth organ player? You all seem very far away. There are great psychological barriers in communicating rather than in just firing off letters for their own sweet sakes. To be honest, Iâm not sure if the outer world exists any more.
And Iâve got other problems ⦠For instance, I was hauled up before an officer I had better not name (he will probably read this letter before you do) in the Censorship office. Apparently I have been giving too much away in my letters and endangering security. (You might be a Jap agent in England, sending all my letters on to High Command in Tokyo, or something similarly daft.) There I stood, rigid at attention in my soiled jungle greens; there he satimmaculate in khaki, putting me right. On such situations the British Empire is founded.
In future any references to place names or troop movements will be deleted from my letters. There is to be no further attempt to convey a picture of what is happening in these possibly most exciting days of my life. I made a protest, but itâs like butting your blinking head against an advancing tank. Any attempts to evade regulations will be punished.
It was hard enough in the first place, trying to describe life here to you. Now Iâm forbidden to try to convey a picture! So hereâs what may prove to be my last try.
I mean the picture is like one of those marvellous Brueghels (in this culturally deprived area I have even forgotten how you spell that weird Flemish name â¦). Is there one called The Conversion of St Paul ? Where there are thousands of people on horseback and on foot in the tall mountains and, although St Paul is having his moment right in the middle of the picture, no one is taking a blind bit of notice. Weâre doing this incredible thing and no oneâs taking a blind bit of notice â just grumbling about where their next packet of fags is coming from â¦
Later. Oh, burps . Now the first day of 1945. No celebrations last night, bringing more complaints. Fancy wanting to celebrate. I was collared to shift heavy stores. Too exhausted then to do anything more than sleep.
Weâre at a place called â but I named it once and darenât do so again or theyâll keelhaul me under the nearest 3-tonner. Great amassment of vehicles. People all strolling round, brown as berries, smoking among the branchless trees. (Hope that doesnât give our positions away.) Half-rations. God in his heaven, CO in his mobile home. Only the Japs missing from the picture. (You could perhaps get Dad to send me some ciggies if heâs feeling generous.)
Oh, I canât concentrate. Something comes between us, and you know who he is.
Well, Iâll just tell you how we got here. I think it was the night after I last wrote that we got on the road again, the whole division,all very orderly. (I donât tell you which division, so itâs safe â¦) I was more careful about how I travelled, not wanting to meet my end yet â dying for your country should not entail being run over by your own 3-tonner! Yet the sight of endless trucks trundling like elephants in convoy is irresistible. Are they off to the Elephantsâ Graveyard or a solemn heavyweight orgy? Some stops, some starts, yet on the whole a steady funeral pace. Huge chunks of landscape phantasmal in the dusty dark.
Sleep, huddled in a silly position on a crate. Waking next morning very early to behold a wondrous sight.
Is dawn a secret shy and cold,
Anadyomene, silver-gold?
Are we still on terra firma
Or merely moving into â another
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